


Impromptu

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Eventual Romance, F/M, Jealous Sherlock, Matchmaking, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Molly Plays the Piano, Music, Musical Instruments, Regency Romance, Romance, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: - Title changed from "Love and Harmony -Sherlock and Molly met nearly ten years ago, and instantly bonded over their mutual love and talent for music. However, as Molly prepares for her first London season, and Sherlock begins his career as a freelance detective, that bond will be put to the test - and may, perhaps, blossom into something more. Regency AU Sherlolly. Rated T for violence and the odd lemon.





	1. Chapter One

_19 September, 1797_

Fifteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes, youngest son of the Earl of Belmont, was undeniably bored out of his mind. His impossibly quick mind rebelled at stagnation, and there was nothing more stagnant than being forced to sit through a dinner party. Sherlock hated parties, particularly small ones. If the gathering were large, at least he might steal away for a few brief moments of peace without being noticed. Tonight, however, no more than a dozen guests graced the entryway of Belmont Hall, thus any attempted escape would be immediately noticed by the hawk-like eyes of his mother.

Lady Belmont, or Violet to her friends and family, was easily as sharp as her three highly intelligent sons, but unlike them, she valued her relationships, and cared somewhat about their opinions (though she would always argue that society as a whole placed entirely _too much_ value in the thoughts and ideas of others). Her intelligence was matched by her grace and good humor, and she was universally loved by all who came to know her, and inherently respected even by those who only heard of her. In short, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Her husband, Siger, had inherited his title at the passing of a childless uncle, and took on the role reluctantly, but without argument. What argument could be made, after all? For the law was absolute, and the estate was in need of a master. A kind and simple man, Lord Belmont was content to sit in his study and smoke his pipe, whilst scouring the newspaper for the latest horse-racing news. However, not one to place bets or indulge in speculation, he contented himself with reading about it later, and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Lord Belmont cared little for society, and that disinterest transferred to two of his three sons.

Sherlock turned his eyes to each of his brothers in turn. The eldest, Sherrinford Holmes, took his to-be-inherited title very seriously, and made every effort to live up to the respect and good name made for them by their mother. Though a bit more prickly than either parent, he managed to earn the affections of society, and, in particular, a Miss Amelie Dupont, who became the newest Mrs. Holmes the previous autumn. Sherlock observed his sister-in-law, a pretty enough girl with fair hair, fairer skin, and dark green eyes. There was a subtle glow to her countenance, mixed with a barely-concealed grimace betraying her discomfort, suggesting to him that in the course of this evening, they would likely receive a happy announcement.

Mycroft, the second son, had also made a name for himself as a rising star in the government. At twenty-one, he had earned a seat in the House of Lords—unheard of for a second son—and was quickly climbing the ranks. However, for all his intellectual prowess, Mycroft lacked any interest or skill in dealing with society. He was often referred to as “The Ice Man,” and frequently wore a scowl on his face. Mycroft was the only individual present as utterly bored as Sherlock, and he felt a small amount of empathy. That feeling lasted but a moment, for the two younger Holmes brothers had established a rivalry, always competing, trying to outsmart the other. Sherlock had yet to win over his brother, but he placed the blame for that on his youth and lack of experience. As he grew older, he would undoubtedly claim the upper hand. He was quite determined.

“You’d better behave, Sherlock Holmes,” his mother whispered from beside him. Despite being a head shorter than him, she put a hand on his shoulder in what would appear, from an outsider’s perspective, to be an affectionate gesture, but was in fact a warning. “No incidents, understood?”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he conceded, “Yes, Mother.”

“Good.” Then, following a genuinely affectionate squeeze of his shoulder, she turned her attention to her guests. “Thank you all for coming this evening! I realize this is a bit atypical of a Michaelmas feast, but my husband and I thought a more intimate gathering would suit the occasion.”

 _Here it comes_ , Sherlock thought with a roll of his eyes, and caught Mycroft mimicking the gesture as Sherrinford and Amelie stepped forward, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. His cheeks turned pink as they shared an amorous glance, then addressed the group, “Amelie and I are expecting.”

Excited tittering erupted through the room, and Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes again. After the acceptable congratulations had been offered, Lady Belmont raised a regal hand, effectively silencing the room. “In celebration of this happy news, we have agreed that the normal order of seating be done away with for the evening, and moreover, we would like your children to join us.”

 _Damn_ , Sherlock groaned internally. That explained his mother’s warning. All hope of excusing himself had now fled, and he would be forced to sit through the entirety of the event. In addition, he would have to officially make the acquaintance of everyone in the room. He’d gotten by with only a superficial knowledge of his extended family and his parents’ friends, but now he would have to associate with them himself. _Damn_ , he thought again.

He suffered through the introductions, bowing politely as he was taught (he was not a heathen, after all), and otherwise keeping his mouth shut. As the last group of new acquaintances approached, he noticed a small girl hiding behind the adults he assumed were her parents.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hooper,” Lady Belmont provided their names. “You know Mycroft, of course, and this is my youngest, Sherlock.”

“A pleasure,” Mr. Hooper smiled, and the couple inclined their heads to each brother in turn, and turned to the timid girl, urging her forward. “This is our daughter, Margaret.”

“She is only ten,” Mrs. Hooper explained with a fond chuckle, “and terribly shy. Molly,” she whispered to the little girl, “won’t you say hello to our hosts?”

“Miss Hooper,” his mother and Mycroft greeted her. The tiny girl stepped forward, and Sherlock noted her mousy-brown hair, dark eyes, and upturned nose, and merely sniffed. She was a plain little thing, the kind society women would no doubt tear apart. _She’ll never catch a husband with that face_ , they would say. And considering her reticent disposition, they would probably be right.

Shakily, Miss Hooper curtsied first to Lady Belmont, then Mycroft, then she turned to Sherlock. As she looked upon him, she gasped aloud, and her eyes widened comically. Sherlock frowned in confusion, and she seemed to come to herself. A dark flush spread across her freckled cheeks, and she quickly bobbed a final curtsy, before scampering back behind her mother, clinging to the fabric of her dress. The adults, Mycroft excepted, shared a good-natured laugh, and brushed off the action. Dinner was announced a moment later, and the party migrated into the dining room.

Sherlock found himself watching the young Miss Hooper throughout the meal. She stared pointedly at the table directly in front of her, and ate no more than three bites of each course. Her cheeks still bore a trace of their earlier blush, and he concluded she was embarrassed by her behavior. For his part, he was curious, and a bit apprehensive. Had she recognized him from somewhere? His adventures—or “incidents,” if one asked his mother—often took him to the nearby village, and occasionally across the borders of their land and into other estates. Perhaps she’d seen one of his more secretive missions, and would go tattling on him.

Resolved to ensure that would not happen, Sherlock kept a close eye on Miss Hooper. After the meal, the gentlemen stayed for port and cigars, while the women and children moved to the drawing room for cards and conversation. Sherlock would have preferred to stay with the other men, but the last time he’d attempted, when he was thirteen, his father had scolded him (a rare occurrence with the normally very composed Earl), telling him to try again in about eight years. Today, however, this served his purpose well, giving him an opportunity to approach Miss Hooper.

He did so promptly, and without her knowledge, as she had been asked to favor the ladies with a performance at the pianoforte. Her fingers moved with surprising grace, considering her age, though she had quite a long way to go before she could be called truly accomplished. Sherlock felt an unexpected urge to retrieve his violin, and offer to perform a duet. He refrained, telling himself there were more important matters to attend to, such as saving himself from being skinned alive by his mother.

Sherlock remained still, watching her hands as she plunked out a highly simplified version of a Mozart piece. As she finished, the mothers and young ladies present applauded, and Miss Hooper's face turned pink again. She glanced up with a shy smile, which vanished as she caught sight of Sherlock. She gasped again, albeit more quietly, and her blush deepened.

“You play… well, Miss Hooper,” he said politely, almost choking on the lie. Well… not a lie, but not precisely the truth. She did play well for a ten-year-old girl.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Miss Lampton,” he heard his mother address a girl just a bit older than himself, “will you favor us?”

Taking this cue, Sherlock offered to help Miss Hooper stand, as Miss Lampton approached. A moment later, a woman he could only assume was Miss Hooper’s governess came to retrieve her, and take her to the nursery, as was customary. Sherlock balked at the idea of following her to the nursery; he hadn’t set foot in there since he had begun his days at Eton, fancying himself too old. But he pushed aside his discomfort, and his better judgment, and asked, “Might I join you?”

The silence that greeted his request was deafening. He glanced at the women in the room, and found, unsurprisingly, expressions of shock on every face… except that of his mother. Lady Belmont’s eyebrow quirked up, and a hint of a smirk played at her lips. Sherlock recognized her scheming look, and almost regretted asking. The deed was done, however, and the governess acquiesced.

Once in the nursery, she took a seat in the corner of the room, where she could observe and attend, as needed, but remain otherwise invisible. Sherlock and Miss Hooper stood awkwardly for a moment, then Sherlock blurted out the first question that came to mind.

“Your mother called you Molly?”

She turned to him with a start. “I… yes. Well, Father called me that first, then she started to use it, too.”

“I’ve never heard the name. Where did they come up with it?”

Miss Hooper bit her lip. “He… he said I was sweet as a lolly, and then just put the ‘M’ at the beginning.”

Sherlock tried—really, he did—not to scoff at the idiocy. But the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. “What sentimental nonsense!”

Her eyes widened with hurt, before they narrowed in surprising anger. “I happen to like my name! What do you know about it? You don’t even have a nice pet name, do you?”

“Thank heavens, no,” he drawled. “I can only imagine the monstrosities that would come from an attempt to shorten my name.”

“You mean, like… ‘Sherlie’?” she asked with a raised brow, then she dissolved into giggles. Despite his horror at the name, he found himself laughing along with her. Several minutes later, their laughter subsided, and he extended a hand.

“Truce, Miss Hooper?”

She eyed his hand, then shook it firmly. “Very well. And please call me Molly, even if you don’t like it.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” he countered, then chastised himself for this admission. Clearing his throat, he covered his misstep by saying, “I’ll call you Molly if you promise _never_ to call me Sherlie.”

Molly giggled. “I promise… Sherlock.”

He smiled in response. “Now that we’re friends, Molly, may I ask you a personal question?”

She eyed him suspiciously, but replied, “I suppose so.”

Sherlock looked directly at her, wanting to observe every nuance of her expression, then at last posed the question that had plagued him all evening. “Where did you see me before?”

“Pardon?” she asked in confusion.

He huffed, his patience dwindling swiftly. “When you saw me, you gasped, and I can only assume you recognized me from somewhere. I’d like to know _where_.”

She frowned. “But I never saw you. Never in my whole life.”

He blinked slowly, processing this information. “Then… why did you gasp when you saw me?”

In an instant, her blush had returned with a ferocity, and she swallowed hard. “I… would rather not say.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Then I must assume you find my appearance repulsive?”

Another gasp escaped her lips. “No! That is…” Molly stepped back as she realized her mistake. Sherlock smirked, but said nothing, content to wait for her honesty. She sighed, visibly deflating as she admitted defeat. “I-it’s because… because… youhavetheprettiesteyesIhaveeverseen.”

She blurted the admission so fast it almost blurred together, and it took Sherlock a moment to puzzle through what she had said. As it dawned on him, he froze in place, making no movements apart from several rapid blinks. “I… er… thank you?” he finally stammered out.

Molly tucked her chin against her chest, avoiding his gaze. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled, then turned and sauntered over to the window, looking out at the vast blackness of the night. She was clearly very uncomfortable, and for the first time that Sherlock could remember, he felt sympathy, and even a bit awed. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she did give him an honest answer, which showed no small amount of bravery. And apparently, his eyes were the prettiest she had seen. That knowledge filled him with irrational pride, and he couldn’t hide a smile, crossing the room to stand beside her.

“You do play the pianoforte quite well, Molly,” he said. “For your age.”

Yet another blush stole across her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“There is another pianoforte on the third floor,” he divulged almost conspiratorially. “The sound shan’t carry down to the drawing room. And I play the violin,” he added. “We could...”

“Play a duet?” she finished, looking up at him in surprise.

Sherlock shrugged, keeping his eyes forward. “If you like.”

“Oh, yes!” she all but shouted, earning a small cough of reprimand from her governess. Sherlock smirked as she demurred. “I-I mean… yes, Sherlock, I… would like that very much.”

He fought to smother his grin. “Let me fetch my violin.”

After retrieving the instrument, the two young musicians, accompanied by Molly’s governess (Miss Tate, he learned), journeyed up the stairs to the upper music room. This room was originally for Sherlock’s use, as he often played his violin late at night when he had difficulty sleeping. He rarely used it, however, as he couldn’t be bothered to climb the stairs so late at night, and his family had eventually become used to the racket. As his skills developed, the interruption of the sleep was perhaps a bit less unwelcome, though he’d never asked.

The duo spent just shy of an hour playing their favorite pieces, with Sherlock giving a few pointers on her performance. He’d received lessons and excelled at the pianoforte, but his true musical love was the incomparable Stradivarius. They had just finished an improvised duet variation on a piece by Bach when the door opened, revealing Molly’s father.

“There you are!” he smiled. “Lady Belmont was right, she suggested I look up here. Mr. Sherlock,” he briefly nodded in his direction, “Miss Tate, Mrs. Hooper is unwell, and would like to retire early. We’ll be going now.”

“Yes, sir,” the governess replied docilely.

“But Papa—”

“I’m afraid I must insist, Molly,” he cut her off, and Sherlock noted a touch of fear in his eyes. It seemed Mrs. Hooper’s condition was more serious than a headache or a trifling cold. Something was very wrong with her, and her days were numbered.

Sherlock felt almost ill. Molly would be so very sad when her mother passed, and he found he hated the idea. No sooner had this realization struck than he stepped forward, determined to do something about it.

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Hooper,” he said evenly. “Miss Hooper shows tremendous potential on the pianoforte, and with proper practice, could become quite talented.”

Mr. Hooper blinked. “Yes, I believe she will.”

“With _proper_ practice,” he emphasized. “And I, myself, am in need of additional practice on the violin, and as we have noticed tonight, we make quite a pair.”

The older man arched a brow. “What are you proposing?”

“If it is agreeable to you, sir,” he began, donning his most persuasive expression, “Miss Hooper may come to our estate the second and fourth Saturdays of every month. I return home from Eton for these week-ends, and would enjoy the additional practice time, and the company.”

Mr. Hooper’s eyes slid a spot down and to the left of Sherlock’s face, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Molly nodding vigorously. With a smile, Mr. Hooper said, “I will discuss this with my wife, and send a note with my response. But for tonight, we must be on our way.”

“Of course,” he conceded with a slight bow of his head, before facing Molly. “It was a pleasure, Miss Hooper,” he said, all politeness and propriety, but as he bowed, he winked at her, causing a grin and the perpetual blush to spread across her face.

“The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Holmes,” she curtsied back, then she followed Miss Tate and her father out of the room. She stole a glance back at Sherlock just before the door closed. There he stood, tall and handsome, his beautiful eyes twinkling at her. She bit her lip and retreated into her thoughts and memories of the evening.

Sherlock was an exceptionally talented violinist, and likely had no need of practice at all. Yet he wished to have time to practice with _her_. Even at such a young and tender age, her heart could be, and _had_ been, touched by this gesture. She smiled to herself for the entire carriage ride, and fell into a pleasant slumber along the way. As she drifted, three pairs of ears caught a softly-spoken sentence, which she would have no memory of saying.

“I’m going to marry him someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaay, I'm on Ao3 now! So, what are your thoughts? The Regency era is undoubtedly my favorite, and I absolutely love pairing that with my favorite ship, Sherlolly. And this was originally going to be just a childhood-friends-turned-lovers one-shot, maybe two-shot. But this chapter took a life of its own, and shoot-dang, I have to do more! Not that you mind. Anyway. Please leave a lovely little review in the box below!


	2. Chapter Two

_18 October, 1806_

 “I think it’s time Molly had her season.”

Sherlock arched a brow at his mother, who had uttered the preposterous sentence, and was currently giving him a shrewd look from across the room. She was baiting him. For months now, since the anniversary of Mr. Hooper’s passing, and the ending of Molly’s mourning period, she had been dropping less-than-subtle hints. “How sad for Molly to have never had a season!” “What a fine wife Molly will make someday!” And, his personal favorite, “Molly looks well tonight, does she not?”

Though he pointedly refused to respond to any of these statements, he had to agree with each one. Molly’s life had been filled with far more sorrow than that of your average girl of nineteen. She had lost her mother shortly after her eleventh birthday, and the summer preceding what _should_ have been her introduction into society, her father had also passed. Though Sherlock cared little for society on the whole, it was admittedly dreadful timing. In spite of these circumstances, Molly was unfailingly cheerful and engaging, and occasionally quite mischievous. Sherlock fancied himself responsible for the change, though in reality, the person she had become had merely been buried beneath her shyness. She had long since cast off her timid shell, was now quite an accomplished pianist, an acceptable singer, and she possessed a surprisingly sharp mind. She was also kind and charitable, and had a great fondness for children. Such were the qualities most men preferred in a wife.

As for her appearance, Sherlock had no answer one way or the other. Her honey-colored hair and eyes of dark cinnamon were pleasing enough, though many would look on her pale dusting of freckles, thin lips, and upturned nose with disdain. He saw nothing wrong with any of these features, but he was not the sort to look for anything right _or_ wrong, and when asked, his normal reply was simply, “She looks like Molly.” (This response would earn a reproachful look from his mother, a barely-audible chuckle from his father, and a suspiciously blank expression from the woman herself.)

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Mother?”

Lady Belmont huffed in annoyance. “Have you no reply?”

He lowered the newspaper in his hands ever so slightly, inhaling deeply in preparation for his reply. “As a matter of fact, no, I do not. And even if I did, it would not affect your decision to put Molly on display for all of London to see.”

“Do I detect a hint of bitterness?” she smirked.

“You detect _boredom_ ,” he corrected, returning to his paper. “This conversation is utterly dull, and I would prefer to be exempt from it.”

“Shall I tell Molly you find her dull, or would you prefer to do the honors?”

With a violent rustle of paper, Sherlock met his mother’s gaze sharply. “Do not put words into my mouth, Mother. You know perfectly well I think very highly of Molly.”

“Yes,” she said archly, “I do know.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “What are you plotting?”

“I believe we have already established this,” she retorted. “Molly is due for a season, and I would like to sponsor her.”

“Yeeees,” he drawled, “but what has that to do with me?”

“Naturally, I assumed you would take an interest. After all, she has no acquaintances in London, except our family. She will certainly be most comfortable in your company, considering your friendship.”

Sherlock suppressed a groan, his eyes falling closed as understanding dawned on him. “You want me to be her escort.”

“It would be prudent, until another man desires to fill that role. Unless you have some objection to escorting your closest friend,” she pressed with a very pointed look in his direction.

He was trapped; to accept meant surrendering to his mother’s schemes, something he tried to avoid at any cost, but to refuse would be insulting and injurious to Molly. She would never wish to force him into agreeing, but her disappointment would be palpable, and the guilt would consume him. Heaving a sigh, he relented. “Very well,” he muttered.

“Wonderful!” Lady Belmont exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I shall tell Molly directly! Wiggins,” she addressed the butler, “call for the carriage. Molly must have new clothes before the season begins!”

Sherlock shook his head in disgust as his mother bustled frantically about. This was sure to be the longest season of his life.

~*~

Molly beamed to herself as the combined strains of the pianoforte and Sherlock’s violin filled the room. Beethoven’s music was new and unfamiliar to many, but she loved every note on every page, and was immensely grateful to Sherlock for bringing it back after his tour of the Continent. He claimed to have met the composer, and apparently was owed a favor, though she wondered if the account had been exaggerated. Her friend was prone to over-embellishment when recounting tales of his travels, not that she minded in the least. She was content in the knowledge that he cared enough to share.

In the midst of the Allegro, Molly glanced up at the man in question, her smile turning wistful. Over the course of nine years of friendship, she had somehow made the mistake of falling in love with him. Her feelings had only grown stronger when, as stipulated in her father’s will, she came to live with his family at Belmont Hall. Sherlock’s nature kept him oblivious, thank the Lord, and she very much doubted he would ever reciprocate. Nevertheless, she loved him, and relished every moment of their time together.

Returning her gaze to the ebony and ivory keys, Molly poured her soul into the piece, and in turn, her soul was filled with light and passion. Every day, she thanked heaven for the gift of music, and vowed to fill her future home with as much of it as she could.

At the conclusion of the movement, Sherlock lowered his violin, prompting Molly to stop. “Finished so soon, Sherlock?” she teased. “Have your fingers tired themselves out?”

He cast a sideways glare, one which held no potency and bore the traces of a grin. “Not in the least. I stopped for _your_ benefit, Molly, for the fury with which you play must surely have exhausted you by now.”

“I could never tire of playing the pianoforte,” she countered confidently. “I tire of nearly all else in life, but _never_ that.”

“Do you tire of me?”

He posed the question in the same lighthearted tone befitting their banter, but the reply that danced at the tip of Molly’s tongue was an unequivocal, _Never!_ Of course, she could hardly say such a thing, thus her _actual_ reply was, “Only on Tuesdays.”

Sherlock frowned, a delightful pucker forming between his eyebrows. “Tuesdays? Why should you tire of me on Tuesdays?”

“Because,” she explained, making every effort to conceal her humor, “you always wear your longest overcoat when you go out on Tuesdays. I cannot abide it.” In reality, she could not abide him going out in the first place, but she kept this to herself.

One eyebrow quirked slowly upward. “And what, Miss Hooper, is wrong with my longest overcoat?”

“It is so _long_ ,” she groaned, turning on the bench to face him fully. “Why, an inch or two longer, and it would drag on the ground behind you! Certainly that is neither appropriate nor fashionable, not to say an undeniable safety concern.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken,” he drawled in response, pointing at her with his bow, the end of it nearly touching the tip of her nose. “My overcoat is at least three inches above my ankles. You must pay better attention, Molly.”

She rolled her eyes, gently pushing the bow to one side, away from her face. “And _you_ must forgive my inattention, Sherlock, for I confess I can hardly stand to look at it, much less commit the exact length of it to memory!”

“I happen to be rather fond of my overcoat,” he almost whined.

“Nonetheless,” she smirked, “it positively ruins my every Tuesday.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I will simply have to change your mind.”

Molly raised a challenging eyebrow. “If you can.”

“I _will_ ,” he countered, matching her smirk. “Mark my words.”

At that moment, Molly realized how close he had come to her. He bent toward her at the waist, leaving little more then a hand-span's distance from his face to hers. She found herself quite at a loss for words with this realization, and felt her cheeks growing warm with embarrassment and anxiety.

The sound of a throat being cleared was a godsend. Sherlock’s eyes flitted to the left, and he straightened, allowing her to calm her blush—and her heart. “Yes, Wiggins?”

“Pardon the intrusion, Master Sherlock,” the butler replied, “but Miss Hooper is needed in the parlor.”

Molly expelled a quiet, disappointed sigh. Though she appreciated Violet’s exuberant efforts to sponsor her upcoming season, she wished it would not interfere with their rehearsals. It was the only time she was permitted to be alone with him. Duty, however, almost always overruled personal preference.

“Thank you, Wiggins,” she smiled. “I shall come down directly.”

With a short bow, the butler turned and left. Sherlock moved swiftly to his violin case, carefully placing the instrument and bow inside and closing it. “No point in delaying the inevitable,” he said without looking at her.

“I suppose you’re right,” she sighed again.

At that, he did finally meet her eyes. “If you dread your season so terribly, I wonder that you even agreed to this mad scheme of my mother’s.”

She gave a shrug. “I could hardly deny her, when she has been so kind to me, and when I live in her home. And,” she forced this sentence out with great difficulty, “it is the only way to find a husband.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to hide the irritable roll of his eyes. “Ah, yes, the Marriage Mart. How could I forget? All anyone seems to think about these days.”

“Everyone except you,” she pointed out, employing all her self-control in order to mask her pain as she spoke.

He stole a glance at her. “You know very well my feelings on the subject, Molly. And you know I won’t change my mind.”

Molly did know, and had, in fact, tried several times to change his mind. However, there was only so far one could go in such an endeavor without revealing one’s own feelings. And those feelings she had promised to take to her grave, unless and until he fell in love with her first. She would accept no other terms.

“Well,” she stood and donned a cheerful smile. “I suppose I have stalled long enough.”

“Yes. Best not to keep Mother waiting.”

She nodded once. “I will see you this evening, then?”

“Of course,” he gave a small bow of the head, and Molly reluctantly tore herself from his gaze and his presence. All the while, her mind spun over his nearness, the spark in his eyes as he teased her, and the devastating smirk that consistently held her captive. 

~*~

Several hours later, Molly and Violet returned home from an afternoon of fittings and shopping for “necessities.” No matter how fervently Molly insisted that it was too much, that she had plenty of gowns and accessories and underthings, Violet was equally fervent in her rebuttal. In the end, Molly lost count of everything that was ordered and purchased, and consoled herself in the knowledge that Violet was immensely happy. The woman had obviously longed for a daughter, and was given three sons instead. She could endure a bit of discomfort for the sake of her sponsor and surrogate mother.

And what woman doesn’t long to look her absolute prettiest at her first ball?

The season’s first event would take place in less than a week, at the home of Sir Francis Adler, a highly respected man who had been granted a recent knighthood. Molly understood he had a daughter who was a year or two older than her. She hoped perhaps she might make a friend in Miss Adler; she had been rather deprived of female friends.

Molly descended the stairs for dinner, clad in one of her newest gowns. It was one of three ready-made gowns that happened to be in her size, which Violet would not let her leave without. This one in particular was very simple and elegant, cream with a ribbon of deepest red at the empire waist. It was far more fitted than any of her old gowns had ever been, showcasing her thin waist and accentuating her less-than-ample bosom. She felt decidedly uncomfortable, but this was the most modest gown in her wardrobe. She would simply have to adjust.

Violet clapped and exclaimed her delight as she entered the sitting room. “Oh, how lovely! Sherlock, doesn’t Molly look simply wonderful?”

Molly thought that was doing it a bit brown; the gown was certainly lovelier than anything she had owned, but she herself had not changed. And she had no doubt in her mind what Sherlock’s reply would be. True enough, after casting a cursory glance in her direction, the same four words came out.

“She looks like Molly.”

As ever, Molly was uncertain of how to take this remark. Was it a compliment or an insult? With Sherlock, it could easily be either option, or perhaps _neither_.

“Oh, honestly Sherlock!” Violet reprimanded. “You’ve hardly given her a proper look!”

“I believe, after nine years, I know what Molly looks like.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

Molly blushed furiously, about to interject that Sherlock needn’t look if he did not wish to, but at that moment, he huffed in exasperation and did as his mother bade him. A familiar jolt coursed through her as his quicksilver gaze settled on her, one she had experienced since the night they met. Her blush deepened with the memory of her childish behavior. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a fraction as he scrutinized her, but she saw no other change in his expression. After a few moments, he faced his mother once more. “As I said before, she looks like Molly, and that ought to be enough.”

Sighing in disappointment, Violet turned to her. “Forgive my son’s ignorance, Molly. I’m afraid I failed in my efforts to teach him how to compliment a woman.”

“Oh, good Lord,” he muttered.

“I don’t mind, honestly,” Molly gave a small shrug. “I’m glad to know, even in a new dress, I still look like me.”

“There!” Sherlock smiled triumphantly. “Thank you, Molly. You see, Mother? I _do_ know how to compliment a woman.”

“If that is your idea of a compliment,” she scowled, “I’m afraid my failure is deeper than I imagined.”

“Oh, come now, Violet,” Siger interrupted with a chuckle. “Molly is as lovely as ever. Now, what are our plans for the season? I’m certain you have the whole of it laid out.”

Needing no further encouragement, Violet launched into a detailed list of her plans. Sherlock caught Molly’s eye, giving yet another exasperated roll of his own eyes. The corners of his lips quirked up ever so slightly, betraying his underlying amusement. Molly returned the smile, grateful for the return to normalcy, and as the awkwardness dissipated, she believed that the worst was behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… obviously, I started this story before the crazy sister plot twist in “The Final Problem.” However, I’m not changing it. Just roll with the brother thing. Mkay? Love you guys!


	3. Chapter Three

Molly’s stomach tied itself into knots while Penny, her young lady’s maid, did the same with her hair. The evening of the Adlers’ ball had arrived, and immediately after luncheon, Violet had ordered her upstairs, insisting she would need the time to prepare. In truth, she was right. She spent nearly two hours surveying her wardrobe, agonizing over which gown would be best. In the end, she had been forced to ask her maid to send for her surrogate mother. Violet, after only two minutes, promptly and confidently selected her preferred gown: palest pink, cap-sleeved, with a light, gauzy layer over the main skirt of the dress, and beautiful beaded details at the neck- and hem-lines.

With her gown now set aside, Molly set about her preparations. Penny had drawn a warm bath, softened with a milky substance which smelled faintly of lavender. Once she was cleaned, Penny guided her to the vanity, sat her down, and began her ministration upon her hair. Molly closed her eyes, partly from a wish to be surprised (pleasantly, she hoped), but more from the pressing need to settle her mounting nerves.

Her very first ball. She ought to have been excited by the prospect. Not to say she felt no enthusiasm at all; in fact she was certain it would far surpass her expectations. The problem was, she didn’t quite know _what_ to expect. Violet had given her some idea, but as there had been so little time, she felt ill-prepared.

 _Oh, Mamma_ , she thought wistfully. _If only you were here to guide me_.

“Miss?” Molly opened her eyes and met Penny’s gaze in the looking glass. “Time for the dress.”

She gave a nod and rose to her feet, legs trembling. Slowly, she moved to the center of the room, and waited for Penny’s assistance. As Penny fastened the line of buttons at her back, Molly pulled on her long, white silk gloves. As a final touch, she donned a strand of pearls, her mother’s. She would not dream of wearing anything else to her first ball. In a way, it seemed as if her mother would be with her. Molly gently stroked the largest pearl, situated just below her collarbone. Drawing strength from the memory of Elizabeth Hooper, she straightened her shoulders and made her way downstairs.

Violet, striking in her own gown of deepest blue, gasped in delight as Molly made her descent. “Oh, my darling girl! You look absolutely beautiful!”

Molly blushed at the woman’s praise, which was followed quickly by that of her husband. “You do look lovely, Molly dear,” Siger beamed proudly.

“Thank you,” she said meekly, and she noted the absence of one particular person. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Late, I’m afraid,” he sighed in disappointment. “Some business or other, he was rather vague about it. We will see him at the ball, I hope.”

“He _will_ be there,” Violet stated firmly, eyes flashing, “if he values his life.”

Molly bit her cheek against the smile that threatened. Lady Belmont was not to be trifled with, and she did not doubt some dire consequence would befall Sherlock should he choose to avoid the occasion. However, she knew Violet loved her youngest child far too much to inflict any real pain or injury. The worst physical rebuke he would receive would be a smack to the head. Maybe two.

With nothing further to say on the matter, the small party climbed into the carriage and disembarked. Molly’s nerves were soothed by Violet’s assurances that it would not be a terribly large gathering, perhaps eighty people altogether. There would be much larger balls later in the season, with hundreds of guests. Molly felt a spasm of terror at the thought, but suppressed it, reminding herself that tonight was not one of those nights. This would be more intimate, and with far less pressure to impress.

The Adlers’ home was easily as large as Belmont Hall, a stately town-home in the most fashionable part of London. Several liveried footmen lined the stairs to the entrance, ready to assist guests out of their carriages and into the house. Molly thanked the footman that handed her down to solid ground, though she felt no more solid herself.

A hand slipped into the crook of her arm, and Violet whispered, “Take a breath, dear. You have nothing to fear.” ‘Twas easier said than done, but Molly did as she suggested. It helped very little. Nonetheless, the small party moved inside, handing off their coats and capes at the door.

Molly accepted her dance card from the Master of Ceremonies, and followed her guardians to greet their hosts. She was introduced first to Sir Francis Adler, a gentleman with dark, slightly-greying hair, and a quizzical brow. He greeted her cordially, if not warmly, and in turn, introduced his wife and daughter. Lady Catherine Adler’s golden hair shone, even in the dimmed lighting of the entryway, and a pair of keen blue eyes pierced Molly, making her decidedly uncomfortable. Miss Irene Adler, who had inherited her father’s brow and mother’s eyes, seemed almost to laugh at some secret joke.

“What a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper,” she purred in a silky voice. “I daresay we shall become good friends during the season.”

Molly rather doubted her words. Miss Adler, with her sharp eyes, glossy black hair, and sparkling gown of deep red (quite scandalous for a young, unmarried woman), was more likely to tear her down than to become her friend. But Molly duly smiled and curtsied. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Adler.”

Lord and Lady Belmont introduced her to many of their friends, all of whom, unlike their hosts, appeared genuinely pleased to meet her, and their smiles were warm and welcoming. All the while, Molly kept an eye out for Sherlock, who had yet to make his appearance for the evening. She dearly hoped she might have the opportunity to dance with him – indeed, he had been almost forced to agree by his mother – and knew her nerves would not be easy until he arrived.

At last, she spotted him in a corner, speaking privately with another man. Molly wished she might go over to him, but propriety prohibited such brazen actions from women. She tried in vain to catch his eye, but his conversation with the other man seemed to utterly engross him. Sighing, she resigned herself to waiting until he came to her.

* * *

“And you’re certain?” Watson asked in hushed tones. “The culprit is here, tonight?”

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock murmured in response. “The note was very clear. He is here, and he will make his move before the night is through.”

The shorter man huffed a sigh. “Of all nights… I had planned on making my engagement with Miss Morstan known this evening. I suppose it will have to wait.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, Watson, you had better announce it. To delay would send a message to our culprit that we are, in fact, on to him. Might make him less inclined to move. It is chess, Watson. Continue with the evening as planned, dance with your bride-to-be. I will keep a sharp eye, and with any luck, apprehend him before the move is made.”

Dr. Watson nodded once. “Very well. I leave it to you, Holmes. Do be sure to say hello to Mary before any apprehending takes place. You know she adores you.”

A smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “And I, her. She is very worthy of you, Watson.”

“Thank you,” he beamed. “I agree, though I’m not sure I am as worthy of _her_.”

“Nonsense. You’re well-suited to each other.”

“Ah, there she is,” Watson said as he spotted his betrothed speaking with the Adlers.

“Go,” Sherlock encouraged, and watched his friend as he approached the lovely Miss Morstan. They shared a tender smile, announcing first to their hosts, then making the rounds to give their happy news to the whole party. Sherlock felt a pang of loss; his best friend’s marriage would, undoubtedly, bring some changes to their dynamic. Watson had been his partner in solving crime for over a year. They had faced many dangers, shared many triumphs. He was pleased his friend had found a woman who was not boring. Mary Morstan possessed a keen mind and quick wit, nearly equal to his own. No less than such a woman would be worthy of his best friend.

His thoughts were interrupted as his brother approached. “Sherlock,” Mycroft sneered. “Glad to see you managed to make an appearance.”

“Mother’s wrath is not worth the risk,” he smirked in response.

“Indeed,” Mycroft nodded. “Such is the reason for my approach. She would like to remind you of your promise.”

Sherlock barely suppressed a sigh. He certainly needed no reminder, the promise in question had very nearly kept him from this particular event. Only the criminal for which he was searching had drawn him in (and his mother’s aforementioned wrath). For a moment, guilt washed over him. He was being very unfair to Molly. His promise to act as her escort was no trifling matter, however he may dread it.

“I had not forgotten,” he muttered. “Where is Molly?”

“ _Miss Hooper_ ,” he emphasized, reminding him of the blasted rules of propriety, “is with our parents, just there.”

Mycroft gestured with a nod of his head, and Sherlock found them easily. He blinked several times in attempt to clear his eyes, uncertain of what he was seeing. That was _Molly?_ She was much changed from when he had seen her this morning. Her hair was curled and coiffed to perfection, and dotted with pearls matching those hanging around her neck. Her gown was cut to emphasize her figure, and the effect had drawn the stares of many gentlemen in the room. One of these gentlemen, whose name he could not recall, approached her, and she smiled demurely. Very likely, he was asking for a dance. His assumption proved correct as Molly wrote the gentleman’s name on her dance card.

Sherlock found himself walking toward her, unable to recall making the decision to do so, but equally unable to stop. His eyes were trained on Molly, who blushed deeply as she caught sight of him. He smiled and bowed. “Miss Hooper, a pleasure to see you again,” he drawled with perfect politeness. “Mother, you look ravishing as always.”

Violet rolled her eyes and swatted him with her fan. “You troublesome boy,” she scolded, but her smile betrayed her humor. Then, she pointedly looked sideways at Molly.

Sherlock gave another internal sigh, and turned to Molly. “Might I have the pleasure of a dance with you, Miss Hooper?”

Molly smiled fully. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. I am free for the supper set.”

“Very good,” he replied, then spotted Watson and his betrothed coming toward them. “Might I introduce you to two of my friends?” he asked.

“I would be delighted,” she nodded, and Sherlock held out an arm to her. He purposely ignored the satisfied smirk on his mother’s face as she slid her small hand into the crook of his arm. He met the couple a short distance away.

“Might I present to you, Miss Margaret Hooper?” he introduced her. “Miss Hooper, my good friend Dr. John Watson, and his lovely bride-to-be, Miss Mary Morstan.”

“Congratulations!” Molly smiled. “How very excited you must be!”

“We certainly are,” Watson turned adoring eyes to Miss Morstan. “And what a pleasure it is to meet you, Miss Hooper.”

“Indeed, a very great pleasure,” Miss Morstan agreed, something akin to smugness in her expression. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. _What is she plotting?_

Molly flushed a becoming shade of pink. “Thank you. The pleasure is mine. I have heard much of you from Sh—er, Mr. Holmes. He has shared many tales of your adventures.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Watson deadpanned, lifting a brow at Sherlock, who met his gaze with no shame. Molly loved his stories, and why should he not share them?

At that moment, the first dance was called, and the gentleman from before approached Molly. “Miss Hooper, our dance?”

Sherlock noted with some satisfaction that Molly seemed disappointed. “Yes, of course, Mr. Younge. I hadn’t forgotten.”

He watched her leave, and Watson and Miss Morstan followed closely behind to join the dance. Molly danced well, though her grace was marred by an obvious lack of confidence. She needn’t be so nervous, she had a talent for the dance. He had assisted her in practicing, when the dancing master was unavailable, and when not dancing with her himself, played appropriate tunes on the violin as she danced with his father or the master.

A flash of movement to his right alerted him to his mother’s presence. “Dear Molly looks beautiful tonight, does she not?”

The usual retort was on his tongue, but he found himself unable to say the words. Tonight, she looked less like the Molly he knew. His tongue instead betrayed him, and he replied, “Yes, she does.”

* * *

Molly found herself quite worn out by the end of her fifth dance. She could not think what possessed these men to wish her company, but at the end of each set, she had been intercepted with a request for the one following. She had two sets more before the supper set, and she greatly wished that she might have the time to catch her breath and rest her feet before dancing with Sherlock.

The man in question had danced only once since the start of the evening, standing up with Miss Morstan. The two clearly shared a close friendship, and Molly looked forward to knowing the future Mrs. Watson. Dr. Watson had asked for her hand in the third set, and their conversation had been small, but pleasant. He complimented her dancing, and she asked after Miss Morstan, delighting in the way he smiled at the mention of her name. She noted Lord and Lady Belmont dancing the Quadrille, and marveled at their liveliness. They were by no means feeble, but it was somewhat of a surprise to see their age had yet to slow them down.

A quiet groan escaped Molly’s lips as she spotted yet another gentleman approaching her, but before he could reach her, she felt a hand on her arm. Miss Morstan gently tugged her in the direction of the veranda, whispering, “Please, Miss Hooper, do join me for a bit of fresh air, won’t you?”

“I would be most happy to,” she sighed. “Thank you, Miss Morstan.”

The two women walked arm-in-arm to the veranda, both inhaling deeply the crisp, fresh air of the October night. It was chilly, but not excessively so, and was a great relief after the many dances.

“Come, sit,” Miss Morstan bid her, leading her to a stone bench near the door.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Miss Morstan smiled warmly. “I understand you are very skilled at the pianoforte, Miss Hooper.”

Molly blushed at the praise. “I do not know that I would say _very_ skilled, but I dearly love to play.”

“I am sure you’re too modest,” she smiled. “I would love to hear you play.”

Her blush deepened. “You will certainly have the opportunity. Lady Belmont is to give a Musicale at the end of November, and unfortunately, I will be the main performer of the evening.”

“That is _not_ unfortunate! What an honor!”

“It is,” she agreed. “I only wish it did not mean becoming the centre of attention.”

Miss Morstan laughed softly. “What a strange woman you are, to desire _not_ being the centre of attention! Most ladies of the _ton_ would die for such a thing!”

“It is only my first season,” she admitted softly. “I’m afraid I still know very little about what the ladies of the _ton_ do.”

“Well,” her companion said wryly, “be sure that you do not give heed _too much_ to their actions. They can be decidedly catty when they wish, and I would so hate to see you spoiled in such a manner. You are a very sweet girl, Miss Hooper.”

“Thank you, Miss Morstan,” she smiled. “I am glad to have your approval.”

“You have more than that,” Miss Morstan replied, “you have my friendship.”

Molly blinked back a sudden wave of tears. “I… I do not know what to say.”

“Say I have your friendship, as well!” she prompted.

“Of course!” she half-shouted, then gasped and raised a hand over her lips in embarrassment. But Miss Morstan merely laughed, and soon she could only join in. “Thank you again, Miss Morstan.”

“Oh, please, call me Mary. And may I call you Margaret?”

Molly shook her head, earning a brief frown from Mary. “Margaret is not what my friends call me.”

“Then what _shall_ I call you?”

“Molly,” she stated. “That is the name I prefer.”

Mary smiled. “Indeed, it suits you far better than Margaret. Well, Molly,” she glanced about, “shall we return to the party?”

“If we must,” she sighed, “though I confess, I do not know how my feet shall ever recover!”

The ladies laughed and stood together, returning as they had departed, arms linked and a friendship blossoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worry not, dear readers! The much awaited dance with Mr. Holmes is yet to come! Please leave your feedback! I love to hear what you think!


	4. Chapter Four

Sherlock scanned the ballroom in search of any sight of the criminal. No move had been made thus far, but the evening was not yet even half through. In the meantime, he also needed to find Molly. Their set was fast approaching, and he hadn’t seen her since Miss Morstan whisked her off to the veranda. He wondered what they could be discussing, then dismissed the thought. Whatever it was, he was likely better off in his ignorance. _Women_ , he scoffed internally.

At last, he located the two women, chatting merrily near the punch, sipping their drinks with perfect poise. Molly seemed at last to have mastered the nerves that had upset her earlier. He approved of the obvious friendship forming between the future Mrs. Watson and his long-time friend. Being both such unusual women, they would undoubtedly get along splendidly.

Sherlock wasted no more time in crossing over to them. Both women smiled at his approach, and he gave the proper bows to each of them. “Miss Hooper, I do hope you are rested enough for our dance.”

“I am, thank you,” she demurred, her face tinged pink.

The music drew to a close, and those dancers remaining moved to the appropriate positions, forming three circles with four couples each, while those preferring to sit and rest did so. Sherlock held his hand out to Molly, and they joined the other dancers in a series of small circles, four pairs in each. The music began, and the Master of Ceremonies called the Strasbourgeoise. Sherlock recalled with some humor the _many_ lessons spent on this particular dance; it had been one of Molly’s favorites, and she insisted on practicing it far more than the others. Glancing to his right, he noted the smile she attempted to smother, and felt one pulling at his lips, as well. _No sign of nervousness now._

The music began, and the couples bowed to one another. Sherlock caught Molly’s eye, and they shared a smile. “Are you enjoying your first ball, Miss Hooper?” he asked.

“Very much so, thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

He took her hand, as well as that of the woman on his left, and they began the dance. “Might I suggest you place a pillow or two under your feet tonight? That will help lessen the pain.”

Molly blushed furiously. “Mr. Holmes!”

The dance required them to separate here, and exchange partners with other pairs in the circle. When they returned to one another, her face was even redder. “It is highly inappropriate to discuss such a thing in public!”

“But you’ll try it, regardless.” It was not a question, he was certain she would.

“ _That_ is none of your concern,” she muttered.

Sherlock chuckled as he turned her under his arm. “You know I can always ask again. We do live in the same house, you know.”

“Yes, well, that is... different,” she argued feebly.

He turned himself in time with the dance, very much enjoying this banter with Molly. It was one of the many things he enjoyed about her company.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” she spoke again, “I would never have dreamed of discussing such a thing with my other dance partners, and surely neither would you!”

Her words were a slap to his face. She had danced nearly every dance so far, and seemed very pleased to do so, if a bit over-tired, being unused to so much dancing. Nevertheless, her eyes had sparkled with every partner, and her smiles and overall appearance bewitched them all. A dark, unpleasant mood overtook him with these thoughts, and the retort escaped before he could tamp it down.

“But I am not like other dance partners, am I?”

Molly’s eyes darted up to meet his, and all traces of her blush fled. She faltered over the next step, and he quickly righted her.

“Perhaps it would be best to continue the dance in silence, Mr. Holmes,” she suggested coolly.

Sherlock felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. Perhaps he had gone too far. “If that is what you wish,” he agreed, and complied. However, he watched her closely through the dance, even as she made every attempt to avoid his eye. She smiled at the other dancers, but it was forced. Her spirits had been effectively dampened, by none other than his own foolish self.

At the conclusion of the dance, they joined hands, and he escorted her to the table for supper. “I am sorry for my impertinence, Miss Hooper,” he said with all sincerity. “Please forgive me.”

She met his gaze, her eyes appearing to grow even wider than they already were (he had not known such a feat was possible). At last, her smile was once again directed toward him. “Oh, I never could stay angry with you, Sherlock,” she whispered.

He grinned in reply. “I am very glad of it.”

“Except on Tuesdays,” she added with a saucy raise of her eyebrow.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but was delighted by the return of their familiar banter. “I _will_ change your mind yet, Miss Hooper. Be assured of that.”

* * *

To Molly’s great relief, she was able to remain seated for much of the second half of the evening. Lord Belmont engaged her in one of the more subdued sets, before returning to her seat, and there she would remain. She watched Mary and Dr. Watson share another dance together, delighted for both of her new friends, though also quite envious of the love they shared. What a blessing to be in love _together_ , instead of in love _alone_.

Naturally, with this turn of her thoughts, her eyes found Sherlock, standing at the edge of the throng, his eyes scanning the room. Molly watched more closely, confused by the determined gaze. Was he looking for someone? Was he on a case? After a time, his eyes settled on something in particular, and narrowed in focus. She followed his gaze, and found none other than Miss Irene Adler, who met Sherlock’s eyes with confidence.

Molly deflated as the scene unfolded before her. The pair made their way towards one another slowly, as if enacting a scene from a play, meeting in the centre. They spoke in hushed tones, very likely, and in the next moment, he was escorting her to the dance floor. A waltz began, and Molly felt ill at the sight of the man she loved whisking the beautiful, ethereal Miss Adler into his arms.

Unable to witness anymore of it, Molly stood, excused herself, and made her way to the veranda. Once outside, she found herself entirely alone. Her solitude allowed her to think more clearly. Sherlock had never been hers, had never made any declarations nor tendered any agreements. In truth, he treated her as he might a younger sister, though he had none by blood, and she had no reason to be so overset by his choice of Miss Adler. Truly, she was the most beautiful woman Molly had ever seen, and Sherlock must share that opinion. Her pains forgotten, or at least suppressed, Molly returned to the ballroom, determined to rid herself of her feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_Of course_ , Sherlock mused. How could he have missed it? The rose was the answer. The rose on the parchment, drawn at the bottom-right corner, which almost identically matched the one in Miss Adler’s hair. The lady in question looked his way, and a smirk curved her painted lips. Sherlock stepped forward, all his attention bent on her, and she mimicked his movements until they met in the middle.

“I believe I have the waltz, Miss Adler,” he fibbed.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I believe you do.”

They moved to the dance floor and into position, the closeness of the dance allowing them to speak freely. “It was you,” he said with confidence. “You sent the note.”

She laughed quietly. “Clever man.”

“Tell me what you know,” he pressed, ignoring the compliment.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to speak here,” she shrugged, appearing not the least bit perturbed by this admission. “Too many eyes and ears.”

Sherlock cursed under his breath. “When and where _can_ you speak?”

She smiled. “Call on me tomorrow, and perhaps you may find out.”

He sighed in resignation; he had never called on a woman in his life. _Well, needs must_. “Very well.”

“I’ll be taking visitors after ten in the morning.”

“You may count on me being among them.”

“I look forward to it Mr. Holmes,” she purred, gazing up at him through her lashes in what he surmised was meant to be a flirtation expression. He met her eyes, unmoved, and they spoke little else through the rest of the dance.

The waltz marked the conclusion of the ball, and the guests filed slowly out toward their carriages. Sherlock stayed behind, searching for Watson, and was not disappointed, as the very man he sought approached him a moment later.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you dance with anyone outside of your family,” he commented with a grin. “Miss Adler certainly is lovely. I can see why she might catch your eye.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I did not dance with her out of romantic interest, Watson. Surely you know me better than that.”

“Then why _did_ you dance with her?”

He smirked at his friend and partner. “The rose.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The _rose_ ,” he repeated. “Do you not remember? The rose, clearly drawn at the bottom of the note, announcing that a move would be made tonight, at this very ball?”

Watson blinked twice. “Er, yes. What of it?”

“Miss Adler wore an identical flower in her hair.”

His friend’s eyes widened in understanding. “Ah. Then… she is our criminal?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “Or perhaps she is an informant. In any case, I will be calling on her tomorrow in order to glean as much information as possible.”

“ _Calling_ on her?” he echoed. “First a dance, then a house call?”

“For God’s sake, Watson,” Sherlock grumbled, “do get a hold of yourself. She is no conquest or prospective bride. She is merely a tool, a chess piece.” He smiled to himself. “And the game is on!”

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning when they departed, and Molly had never been so thoroughly exhausted in her life. She felt not only physically fatigued, but emotionally, as she continued to see Sherlock and Miss Adler dancing behind closed eyes. The scene taunted her, and even with a decision made to fall out of love with him, the actual act would take much time and effort. Due to these circumstances, she was especially relieved that he would return home separately, just as he had arrived, and she would not have to face him until morning.

“Well, my dear,” Violet interrupted her thoughts. “How did you enjoy your first ball?”

Despite her inner turmoil, Molly could not bear to think of revealing the state of her thoughts to her guardian and surrogate mother. She had gone to such trouble to sponsor this season. With as much cheer as she could muster, and grateful for the dark that hid her saddened expression, she replied, “It was magnificent.”

“I am delighted to hear it. You were quite the spectacle tonight! Why, I’ve not seen any woman so admired at her first ball since Miss Adler’s own presentation!”

Molly winced at the mention of her name, thanking God again for the darkness. “I can well imagine. She is a very beautiful woman.”

“Beautiful indeed, but… well, never mind an old matron’s opinions,” she dismissed herself. “No doubt you are ready to slip off to bed and rest your weary feet.”

“Yes,” she said, her memory darting back to her dance with Sherlock. His suggestion was, in fact, one she would follow, and she did not doubt it would prove most helpful.

Few words were exchanged for the remainder of the ride back to Belmont Hall, for which Molly was immeasurably grateful. Her mind and body were so very weary, she almost doubted she would make the journey to her bed! When they arrived, she half expected to see Sherlock waiting at the entrance, bent on continuing the impertinent conversation from before. Had it not been for the event which transpired shortly thereafter, she might have obliged him with good humor and quick repartee. Alas, he was nowhere to be seen, and Molly returned to her room without interruption.

Penny seemed to sense her lady’s reluctance to speak of the ball, and remained silent as she helped her undress. Molly thanked her, and received a smile and curtsy, but still no words, from her faithful maid, before she scurried out of the room. She climbed into bed with a deep, discontented sigh, and after snuffing the candle beside her bed, fell into a fitful slumber, filled with unhappy dreams of Sherlock and Miss Adler’s shared dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Molly! Kind of a short chapter, but I didn’t have much else to add to the evening without it feeling stretched and dull. But hey, two chapters in one day! Hope you’ve enjoyed!


	5. Chapter Five

The following morning saw an unfortunate downpour of rain, persuading most of London’s residents to remain indoors. Sherlock Holmes, however, was not to be deterred. Despite the unpleasant weather and the equally unpleasant task facing him, he felt obligated to follow through. Thus, at precisely five minutes after the hour of ten in the morning, he could be found presenting his calling card at the home of Miss Irene Adler, drenched to the bone.

“Goodness, Mr. Holmes,” the lady in question drawled, eyeing his sodden form with nothing less than wanton appreciation. “You really are quite determined.”

Sherlock made no response to that, accepted his tea with a small thank you, and waited for the servants to vacate the room. Mrs. Adler duly sat in the chair beside her, acting as chaperone, and also eyeing Sherlock with suspicion and interest.

The trio did not engage in small talk, every person eyeing the others, noting every detail, searching for weaknesses and strengths. For Sherlock’s part, he was frustrated to find very little of note. Mrs. Adler’s demeanor was that of nearly every mother in society with a daughter of marriageable age. She viewed Sherlock as a potential suitor, and though Mrs. Adler was eager to marry Miss Adler off, she seemed also to have a very specific criteria. Judging by the narrowing of her eyes and pursing of her lips, he did not pass muster. No matter, he had no romantic interest in Miss Adler whatsoever.

The young heiress presented a peculiar mystery. Whether the perpetrator or merely a messenger, her role in this remained unclear. Her attraction to him was superficial, and quite possibly fabricated. She smirked and raised a brow at his appraisal, and he tightened his gaze into a glare. Her smirk only grew, much to his annoyance.

“Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Adler spoke abruptly, “are you interested in courting my daughter?”

_How refreshingly blunt_. Sherlock set his cup and saucer on the side table, and weighed his answer carefully. “That remains to be seen,” he replied vaguely.

She arched a brow. “You waltz with her at the ball, make the effort to traipse in out of the rain this morning, take tea with us, and yet you have no answer?”

“I do not believe the compatibility and level of interest may be determined in such a short time. I am interested in furthering my acquaintance with Miss Adler, and doing so will give me some idea of where that acquaintanceship might lead.”

“And just how long an _acquaintanceship_ do you intend to pursue?” she asked.

“I do not _intend_ to pursue anything. I merely hope to learn more about Miss Adler. Perhaps that will lead to more, perhaps it will not.”

Miss Adler chose that moment to intervene. “Come now, Mamma, you’ll frighten the poor man off with all your questions. There is nothing untoward here, no reason to be on your guard.” She stood, prompting Sherlock to do the same. “The rain seems to have lifted, Mr. Holmes. Would you join me in a stroll through the park?”

A perfect opportunity. This would give them the privacy they needed to speak freely, yet was public enough not to be viewed as improper. “I would be glad of it,” he nodded once.

* * *

Molly slept until nearly eleven. She couldn’t recall ever staying abed so late, being far more apt to arise with the sun’s first light. After such an evening, however, she could scarcely drag herself out of bed with full daylight streaming in her windows. Every inch of her spasmed with pain, a dull, throbbing, relentless ache.

Her heart ached worst of all. The memory of Sherlock’s dance with Miss Adler was fresh in her mind, and, she owned, part of her reluctance to leave bed. It would take a great deal of self-control to face him without giving away her feelings. At the moment, she was uncertain she could accomplish it. In a few hours, perhaps, after a hot bath, a good meal, and some time at the pianoforte, she would regain control over herself. Music was her sweetest escape, and had never failed her thus far.

With an unladylike groan, Molly rose and rang for Penny, who arrived a few minutes later.

“Morning, miss,” she curtsied dutifully.

“Good morning, Penny,” she replied on a sigh.

Noting her unusual mood, Penny frowned in confusion. “What’s wrong, miss?”

Most ladies of the _ton_ would have been aghast at such a forward question from a servant. Molly, thank heavens, was _not_ most ladies, and took no issue with Penny’s directness. She and her maid had in fact formed something of a friendship, as she was the closest thing Molly had to female companionship with a woman her own age. Penny was only two years younger than her, had truly saintlike patience, and despite her youth, offered very sound advice when requested.

Even so, Molly hesitated before giving a response. Despite their unusually close relationship, she had never admitted to Penny her feelings for Sherlock. Indeed, she had never told another living soul, and had only once whispered it to her mother’s grave. She did not question her maid’s integrity, had no doubts she would keep her confidences. Rather, she questioned the wisdom of dwelling on such things, particularly when she had made the decision to fall out of love with Sherlock. Molly worried that the discussion would encourage her feelings, rather than eliminate them.

With a soft shake of her head, she at last replied, “Nothing, Penny. I am simply exhausted after my first event in society. I hope they will not all be like this.”

Penny smiled. “I’m sure they won’t, miss,” she said gently, and the conversation was finished.

The two young women went about their shared routine in silence, save when Penny asked Molly which gown she would prefer (she preferred one of her older day dresses, cream with gold embroidery at the bodice and hemline). Once dressed, Molly seated herself before her mirror and handed the hairbrush to Penny, who was in the process of untying the long plait down Molly’s back.

Molly wished the styles and preferences of society would allow her to simply leave her hair down, long and lush and free. Molly was certainly not prone to vanity, though she saw nothing truly unappealing in her appearance, but one aspect of her person in which she did hold a small amount of pride was her hair. It flowed almost to her waist, healthy and soft, and was the color of honey. Violet had praised it once, deeming it the perfect shade, as it was neither too dark to wear light colors, nor too light to wear dark ones, and did not have the misfortune of clashing abominably with pink or red. (Molly made no response to this remark, except to smile and thank Violet for the compliment.)

Alas, the beauty of her hair was lost on many, as the latest fashion dictated that it be swept up into the most intricate and outlandish styles. Oh, they were pretty enough, but they required so much pulling and plaiting, curling and coiffing, that by the end of it, she would find herself with the beginnings of a headache. Fortunately, Penny had learned a number of styles that took far less time and effort, while still conforming to the demands of fashion.

_Oh, that fashion would keep her demands to herself…_

“There you are, miss,” Penny announced, and Molly took in her reflection. She looked like herself, more so than she had the night before. For that, she was grateful.

“Thank you, Penny,” she said with sincerity.

The maid nodded with a smile. “You’re welcome, miss. Oh, the mistress asked me to inform you that the family has already had breakfast, but Felix has been told to make something for you when you are ready. Shall I have him ready your breakfast now?”

Molly felt a stab of guilt at having put Violet out. She was glad she had not held breakfast, but felt a bit uncomfortable at the thought of giving their cook extra work to do. After all, it wasn’t Felix’s fault she had slept late after a tiring and emotional evening out. “Thank you, no,” she answered Penny. “I have stayed abed so long, it is nearly time for luncheon! I believe I shall wait. I am not so very hungry.”

A nearly imperceptible frown crossed Penny’s face, but she did not argue. Molly was certain she would like to, and on any other day, she might have let her. She rather liked having a lady’s maid with a mind and opinions of her own. But to her relief, Penny bobbed into a polite curtsy, and left the room.

Well, with no breakfast to be had, that left the pianoforte.

Molly wasted no time in climbing the stairs to the music room. She opened the beautiful instrument and placed reverent fingers along the keys, letting her eyes fall closed. Ah, even the potential for music gave her strength, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. With a deep breath, she began to play a simple prelude, one of her favorite pieces composed by Bach. The room filled with the soft music, beginning with a slow, almost lazy arpeggio.

This piece brought to mind summer afternoons spent in the gardens, walking, picking wildflowers, or simply enjoying a rare bit of sunshine. Beneath the notes coaxed to life by her fingers, she heard birds singing a morning song, sharing their joy with the world. She heard a bubbling stream as it made its way through the woods, ever constant in its path toward the larger rivers. She felt a warm breeze caress her face and gently tug at her hair, smelled the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle and grass. With the crescendo, the imaginary breeze gusted with greater force, but never enough to cause alarm. Clouds rolled across the sky in her mind’s eye, not storm clouds, but soft, white clouds, creating shapes against an azure canvas. And as she slowed to the song’s conclusion, everything stilled, her earlier pains and doubts all but forgotten, and with the final chord, she was at peace.

_Thank God for music_.

* * *

Sherlock grumbled to himself for the third time since leaving Miss Adler’s home. His visit had been of little use, except to confirm her involvement in whatever mystery was unfolding before him. He asked her frank questions, and _if_ she replied, her answers were in the form of riddles. After an hour’s walk in the park, he grew tired of making no progress, and declared he must return her home. Ironically, it was this which prompted her to be forthright at last.

“You underestimate the person you seek, Mr. Holmes,” she had told him. “He is more cunning than you can imagine, and has vast resources. Furthermore, he has his eye on you.”

His brow furrowed. “And who might this… hidden admirer be?”

Miss Adler laughed. “‘Admirer’? I should say not! And no, I’m afraid I won’t be revealing his name to you. That must come from _him_. And he’ll not give it to you until he wants you to know.”

At that point, with nothing further to offer, she allowed him to escort her home. And Sherlock was no closer to finding the perpetrator than he had been last night. He cursed under his breath yet again, paying no mind to passers-by as he stalked toward Belmont Hall. Once arrived, he handed off his coat and hat to Wiggins, sparing no more than a cursory glance before making his way up the stairs to the music room.

He paused a few paces away as he heard the sound of the pianoforte. Of course, Molly was there first, as she so often was. Sherlock took careful, quiet steps, and slowly pushed the door open. From the doorway, he could see her expression clearly, and he smiled to himself at the utter contentment on her face. In a way, he envied her the pure joy she derived from music. Oh, he loved music, to be sure, but not at such an all-encompassing level. For him, it was a tool with which he could sharpen his mind. For Molly, the pianoforte was her escape. It transported her to worlds unknown, brought her imaginations to life, gave her peace.

What he wouldn’t give to be at peace from time to time. But his ever-racing mind made peace a distant, nigh unobtainable dream.

Molly exhaled slowly as she reached the end of her song, a familiar piece he couldn’t quite name. She remained still for a few moments, and Sherlock wished, certainly not for the first time, he could see the worlds within her mind’s eye.

“Tell me what you see,” he heard himself ask her.

She gave a startled cry, nearly falling backward off the bench. “Heavens above, Sherlock!” she scolded him, placing a hand over her heart. “Announce yourself!”

He smirked at her. “Forgive me, Molly, but you were so lost in your own imaginings, I wonder if you would have heard me if I had.”

A telling blush stole across her cheeks. “I would have heard,” she muttered unconvincingly.

“Tell me,” he prodded again. “What wondrous imagery had you so enthralled?”

Her blush deepened. “Nothing so wondrous. I… I merely pictured a peaceful summer’s day.”

“Hmm,” he nodded soberly. “An enticing image, I am sure.”

Molly’s eyes flicked up to meet his at last, and narrowed as she saw the teasing light within them. “Oh, you!” she growled. “Must you tease me so?”

“Of course I must,” he answered plainly, and would almost have looked bored if not for the smirk that still danced in his eyes. “Think how dreadfully dull your life would be if I stopped.”

“How _pleasant_ , I think you mean,” she countered, then took on a dreamy sort of smile. “Goodness, a life without Sherlock’s taunts and barbs! It sounds delightful!”

For some reason, the words stung for a moment, until he reminded himself that she meant them only in jest. Such banter was commonplace between them, and had been since the earliest moments of their acquaintance. Why then, he was compelled to wonder, had his immediate reaction to her jibe been offense? Nevertheless, he quickly pushed the unpleasantness aside, and if Molly noticed any hesitance in his reply, she gave no outward indication.

“You wound me, Molly,” he drawled, feigning distress. “To think my dearest friend wishes me gone! It is the highest form of torment.”

She scoffed. “I do believe you will survive.”

“I might not,” he shrugged. “This may well be a turning point. Perhaps I will contract a fever that will drag on for months and months, slowly draining the life from me. What say you to...”

His words died at the tip of his tongue when he noted her expression. The becoming ( _what?_ ) blush from moments ago had faded, leaving her countenance almost deathly pale, and her dark eyes were wide with fear.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered, lowering her gaze to the pianoforte. She took a deep breath to sustain herself, and in a voice only slightly louder than before said, “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

Sherlock stood motionless and silent, unsure of how to respond. His mother, were she here, would scold him quite soundly for such a comment. Truly, he had meant nothing by it, merely a continuation of their verbal sparring. Still, he should have known Molly would react in such a way. Though she had a great deal of strength about her, she had a soft heart, and cared deeply for those closest to her.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, and for good measure, he added, “Forgive me.”

With another exhale, Molly shook her head. “I know, I am being silly, but—”

“You are _not_ silly,” he cut her off, bringing her gaze back to him. “Molly, you are anything but silly. I should not have said that. Please, forgive me.”

She regarded him silently for a few moments, then a gentle smile appeared. “You’re forgiven.”

Sherlock grinned in response, but chose to take his leave, bowing his head with exaggerated pomp in an effort to make her laugh. He succeeded, and the return of her good humor meant the return of his. After all, she was, in a way, his responsibility during the season. He had agreed to be her escort. But more than that, and certainly more importantly, he was her friend, and she was his. He may be dismissive of many things, but Sherlock Holmes did not take his friendships lightly. It was a rare person indeed who could tolerate his ever changing moods and abominable lack of tact. Therefore, those who fit that description were precious, and should be treated as such.

This, he told himself repeatedly on his way out of the music room, was the _only_ reason for his discomfort at seeing her distressed, and for the pleasure he felt when she smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock. You're so full of it. FINALLY, AN UPDATE!! Yaay, I'm so excited to be back in the game! I really hope this lasts, because I have tons of ideas, and I wanna share 'em all! Also, in case you're like me and you want a song to go with the story, the piece I imagined Molly playing in this chapter is Bach's "Prelude & Fugue in C Major," part of The Well-Tempered Clavier. Odds are, you've heard it at least once in your life, but didn't know what it was called. I'm a pianist and a former music major, which means I'm a classical music nerd. Anyway, comments are always deeply appreciated! Much love!


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